


Revisionist History

by eluna



Series: Dean Winchester's Forays into Fanfiction [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Crack Treated Seriously, Dean Winchester Reads Fanfiction, Dean Winchester Writes Fanfiction, Dean Winchester in Denial, Depressed Dean Winchester, Dom Sam Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Escapism, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt No Comfort, In-Universe Supernatural Fanfiction, In-Universe Supernatural Novels, Kink Shaming, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Meta, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Porn Reading, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Season/Series 05-06 Hiatus, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester, Sub Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9843851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna
Summary: What did Sam call the bullshit people write about them? Fanfiction. It feels like a nasty invasion of privacy, except that Chuck’s fans don’t actually know that Dean and Sam really exist, and somehow Dean’s biggest problem with the story is that Sam’s dialogue isn’t at all true to what Sam actually talks like.Not that Dean technically knows for a fact the style of dirty talk Sam favors in bed with chicks, or that Dean’s spent any length of time wondering about it before this exact minute, but now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t picture Sam being so… vulgar. Sam, who always wants to have big, cuddly conversations about everybody’s feelings, would totally go slow, asking if Dean was feeling good and what Dean wanted to do, and probably spout off the whole time about how much he loved Dean—that is, if they ever had sex, which they won’t, because they’re brothers, and also Sam is—gone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to prioritize finishing up the sequel to Have You Seen Me Lately, and I'm almost there - just four major scenes left to write - but I hit a roadblock a few weeks ago and thought I would work on another one of my SPN ideas to try to get back in the hang of writing (I have a super long list). So instead, have some crack treated seriously featuring Dean's adventures in fanfiction based on the works of Carver Edlund. This particular story is pretty dark with some humorous moments sprinkled in, but I have two timestamps planned and both of those should be much more lighthearted. I wrote this in one long sitting, so please forgive any incoherencies! Comments are very much appreciated :)

When Dean starts trolling the Internet for _Supernatural_ fanfiction two months into living with Lisa and Ben, he can’t believe the idea didn’t occur to him sooner. He’s got a couple photos of Sammy—Dean used to spend hours at night scrutinizing them over a bottle of whiskey, like the grainy images would start to sharpen if he only looked long enough, and he still would if it hadn’t scared Ben so much—and sure, he misses Sam’s girly hair and massive height and stupid, gym-sculpted muscles more than he’d expected. But mostly, he just wishes he could _talk_ to Sam, even just to bicker about each other’s diets and to hear Sammy call him a dumbass and a jerk. It’s not like the text messages Dean’s saved from Sam are very substantial ( _Interview was a bust, tell me you’ve got something better for us_ ; _Hey so they’re out of pie at gas’n’sip but I’m bringing donuts instead_ ), and Dean never gave Sam a mailing address so that he could write to him from Stanford: _Dean_ wrote sometimes, sure, idiotic notes jotted off whenever he’d passed too much time with too little human contact, but he’d never include a return address. (Dean actually finds those letters going through Sammy’s bag in the first week at Lisa’s, and he gets through barely half of one before tearing them all up with a roar, livid with himself that losing Sam to Stanford could possibly still hurt, knowing where the kid is now, where Dean’s selfishness ultimately landed him…)

Anyway, then Dean remembers about Chuck and the books. He’s still got two of them in the dusty backseat of the Impala, the first book about the Woman in White and the one with Cassie and the racist truck, but Dean’s a fast, practiced reader, and they barely last him a day, even with all the breaks for liquor-hazy meltdowns and concerned looks from Lisa. He laughs at all of Sam’s lines, even the ones spoken during fights between them, and when he’s finished both books, Dean hops on Lisa’s desktop computer, turns on private browsing, and runs a quick search to see where he can find more of the books.

Only whatever the fuck Dean’s reading can’t be Chuck’s work. The quality is shittier, for starters, and that’s compared to the mediocrity of _Chuck’s_ writing. More importantly, Dean’s pretty sure he would have remembered if he’d ever had sex with his brother, which he hasn’t, obviously, although you wouldn’t know that if you were judging by the events of whatever Dean is reading right now.

He glances up at the domain name of the website and realizes with a flush what he must be reading. It seems that Dean’s stumbled across MoreThanBrothers.net, and he’s fairly sure Sam said that _this_ is the website that psycho chick Becky Rosen runs. What did Sam call the bullshit people write about them? Fanfiction. It feels like a nasty invasion of privacy, except that Chuck’s fans don’t actually know that Dean and Sam really exist, and somehow Dean’s biggest problem with the story is that Sam’s dialogue isn’t _at all_ true to what Sam actually talks like.

Not that Dean technically knows for a fact the style of dirty talk Sam favors in bed with chicks, or that Dean’s spent any length of time wondering about it before this exact minute, but now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t picture Sam being so… vulgar. Sam, who always wants to have big, cuddly conversations about everybody’s _feelings_ , would totally go slow, asking if Dean was feeling good and what Dean wanted to do, and probably spout off the whole time about how much he loved Dean—that is, if they ever were to have sex, which they won’t, because they’re _brothers_ , and also Sam is—gone.

He reads the remaining two thousand words of the story regardless, and when he’s done, Dean scrolls to the top of the page and navigates to the homepage for the archive.

-

For the subsequent week, Dean works his way methodically through the most recent eight months worth of slash fics filed under the category “Porn with Feelings” on MoreThanBrothers.net. At first, Dean can’t get past how totally bizarre it all is. He cringes at the filthy mental images supplied by the stories (which are even, on certain rare and horrifically memorable occasions, _illustrated_ ) as he tries to follow along with the nebulous, ill-defined sexual acrobatics that his and Sam’s fictional counterparts perform, and the excessive exposure to porn keeps resulting in awkward boners that Deans feels too inexplicably guilty about to take care of the old-fashioned way. But with this filter in place, he generally has better luck finding closer approximations of Sam’s speech patterns and mannerisms, and he starts to rack up a short list of stories where Sammy’s character seems true to the way Dean’s brother would talk and act, if he were here. It almost makes Dean feel like Sam is back with him again, like Dean’s seeing through to some wacko dimension where he’s having sex with his brother, both of them alive and on the road and waving at him from the other side of the screen.

He even makes an account from which to write reviews on some of the stories, so that he can compliment the better writers on their characterizations and chastise the ones whose shitty dialogue and implausible scenarios pull him out of his forays into escapism. After musing for nearly thirty minutes over how to select a username that conceals Dean’s identity without making him look like a total douchebag, he settles, satisfied, on calling himself “RubySux2010.” It’s true—she _does_ —but surely all Chuck’s readers will feel the same way about Ruby’s character in the books or whatever, right? Total anonymity.

Returning to his list of his favorite stories, Dean starts reading the earmarked authors’ additional works in between posting reviews (which _isn’t_ weird—he’s doing these people a service by reinforcing behavior with rewards or punishments as is appropriate). Accordingly, he discovers a few new categories of stories to peruse: “Hurt/Comfort,” “Fluff,” and especially “Stanford Era,” not because Dean enjoys thinking about Stanford but because quite a few stories about it prominently feature Sammy apologizing for leaving before making it up to Dean with lots of sappy sex.

 _Thanks for the super sweet review! The boys are both so multilayered & I’m so flattered you thought I did them justice_, one author writes Dean back just a few minutes after he posts a review. _Saw that you haven’t published anything yet & would love to see your take on the characters =)_

Dean doesn’t respond. It isn’t like he can be honest with these people about any details of his life (or like they’d believe him if he tried to be), and he thinks his head might implode if he progressed from reading porn about himself and his brother to actually writing it.

-

It only takes a few more months before Dean progresses to writing porn about himself and his brother. He isn’t sure whether Chuck’s published books have caught up to the present yet (Dean prays to God that Chuck stopped writing when Sam died so that Dean’s recent, uh, activities won’t make it to print anywhere), so he sets his first story before Dean’s own tour in the pit—much before.

 _You’d think Wisconsin would be pleasantly cool in the summers, as far north as it is, but it’s stiflingly humid in the field where we’re unpacking fireworks from the back of Dad’s Impala. You’re so excited when I reveal the contents of the box, a goofy smile lighting up your entire body brighter than the sky, than the whole damn flaming field when the sparks catch fire and I tell you we need to_ go _. But you’re laughing when I pull away, all the way until I park five miles out so you can watch the smoke billow in the distance and I can watch you, your stupid long hair falling in your colorless eyes and your limbs all bony and long. You’re 13 and I wish you’d slow down growing—wish I could stop the clocks on a thousand things that haven’t hurt you yet and maybe never will if only I can_ save _you—but I’m no angel and all I can do is hoist you into my lap, smirk at the surprised little gasp you make, and kiss your face, slow, first your cheeks sloppily and teasingly but then your dimples, the soft patches underneath your eyes, one corner of that pouty mouth, and finally_ —

“Hey, Dean.”

Jumping a little, Dean minimizes the browser window and looks up at where Ben is hovering in the doorway of Lisa’s study wearing a nervous half-smile. Shit: Dean must have lost track of time. “Hey, buddy. How was school?”

“It was fine. Haven’t seen much of you in a while.”

After that first couple of days, Dean had rearranged his schedule so as to overlap his sleeping times entirely with the evening hours when Ben and Lisa are at home and awake. He’d thought it best to shield them as much as possible from himself, both reducing and increasing his guilt about the fat nothing he’s contributed since Lisa took him in. “I’m heading to bed pretty soon here, but why don’t I make you some dinner first and let you tell me about what you’ve been up to?”

“It’s not even four o’clock in the afternoon,” says Ben with a raised eyebrow.

“Come _on_ , you’re going to tell me you can’t always make room for burgers?” Ben grins a little at that, and Dean carefully clicks to save his draft before logging out and clearing his browser history, just to be safe.

It’s the first real conversation he’s had with Ben since moving in—Lisa, too, whom he stays up to see however briefly before he heads up to sleep. But she pulls him aside before he can do so, leaving Ben to shoot them a curious look before he shrugs and switches on the television.

“It’s good to see you up,” Lisa tells him, cutting off his reply to add, “but, Dean, I don’t want to see Ben get hurt if you start to take an interest just to check back out again.”

Dean sighs and pulls at his face. “I know. I’m not—I don’t want to… and you _know_. You know I’m grateful, that if you didn’t…”

He can’t manage more beyond that, steering strictly away from any territory that involves Sammy and the things Dean thinks about all day and night, but Lisa purses her lips and shakes her head. “You’re grieving. I still think you’ve got clinical-grade PTSD, even if no psychologist out there would believe your life story in order to give you an accurate diagnosis. We both knew you were going to need time before you would really be functional again, and I’m not asking you to feel better faster than you’re going to or to—to start working somewhere right away—”

“Lisa…”

Lisa lets out a long sigh and tips forward, resting her forehead under Dean’s collarbone and settling a hand on his hip. “I get it. I knew what I was signing up for, and I want to help you, you know? But Dean—it’s worse for him to live with a stranger, _especially_ if you start teasing that you want to be more to him and then not following through, than to see what you’re going through. Honestly, I would rather that Ben see firsthand by having a relationship with you that having a mental illness doesn’t make someone any less of a person than anybody else, not leave him to draw his own conclusions about what’s going on with you.”

There are about a hundred things Dean could say in response to that, but he settles on, “I have a mental illness now?”

“Yeah. I think you do. And there isn’t any shame in that, Dean.”

But Lisa doesn’t know how Dean passes his time to survive these days. Between trying to spend more time with the two of them and starting to apply for jobs in the area, it’s a few days before Dean finishes the story, a few weeks more before he does the one after it, but he keeps writing. His reviewers tell him that his stories should be re-categorized as something called “Weecest,” which to Dean’s understanding encompasses the period of time during which Dean having sex with Sam would have made him some kind of nasty pedophile, but even though the stories’ plots are mostly just sex, he’s not writing them because of the sex, and he certainly never actually made moves on Sammy or even _thought_ about him that way… _ever_ , but especially not when he was just a little kid, Jesus Christ. It’s just nice indulging when Dean spent almost their whole relationship avoiding saying any of the meaningful crap that was always so important to Sam to talk about.

-

He stops drinking so much when he starts working construction, then picks it back up when Sammy _shows up_ alive and whole and a little—just a little bit off, Dean swears he notices. He stops writing, but he surprises himself when he doesn’t stop reading stories on Becky’s website. One of his favorite authors publishes a multi-chaptered work about Sam and Dean failing to connect in the weeks after Sam leaves school: it’s written from fake-Dean’s point of view and contains lots of angst about Sam’s newfound socioeconomic privilege making his new identity irreconcilable with Dean’s memories of him. Dean tells the author that her representation of Dean’s thought processes misses the mark, and he proceeds to read the damn thing about six times in a row after Sammy fucking _lets_ that vamp bite Dean, even if he insists he couldn’t have stopped it.

It’s not long after the thing with the fairies that Sam figures out what Dean’s been up to. “So this is interesting,” the freak informs him with a broad, humorless grin, and when he spins the laptop around, Dean recognizes the layout for MoreThanBrothers.net even from where he’s standing frozen in the doorway of the motel room. “You tell me I can’t make decisions for myself anymore because _my_ judgment is impaired, when this whole time, you’ve been, what? Playing out your sick incest fantasies in pornos that you post publicly on the Internet? Don’t you think that’s just a touch hypocritical?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation for _anything_. Not as long as you’ve got a pile of empty rattling around in your chest where your soul should be.”

“I don’t _mind_ ,” Sam says conversationally, slamming the lid of the laptop shut, and Dean realizes with horror that Sam’s fly is open. “It could be pretty kinky. I’ve been fucking a lot of hookers to fill the time, but I think that watching you get the kinkiness and the shame all mixed up together would probably be hot enough to make my orgasm a lot more satisfying than usual, if you want to fuck.”

“You expect me to believe that you’re giving me the choice to say no?” Dean asks faintly. He’s never felt less aroused in his life, and he wishes Sam would stop calling it “fucking.”

“Raping you would probably be a pretty good workout,” Sam concedes after a moment’s thought, and Dean’s stomach turns over, “but I still have _priorities_ , and riding with you is one of them. It probably still means something that I used to care about you and your safety, right? Without clear goals in mind, I’d go crazy. So I picked goals, and it would contradict _that_ particular goal to force myself on you.”

As Sam licks his lips and kicks his jeans down to his knees, Dean fidgets in the doorway, hating himself as his semi grows a little bigger. “Say I agree to this. How do you want it? Top or bottom?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I don’t do anal, but you’re welcome to suck me if you like.”

Dean grimaces as he edges fully into the motel room, snaps the door shut behind him, and crosses slowly forward to the bed. His hands shake as he pulls down Sam’s boxers until the dude’s penis flops out—barely half-hard, softer even than _Dean’s_ is right now—and when he leans in and puts his hands on Sam’s stubbly jaw, Sam ducks his face away. “None of that, either, man, come on. Get to the good part.”

So Dean crouches on his knees and gets to work, fucking it all up: gagging on the salty taste and scraping with his teeth. Grunting, Sam starts thrusting his hips up and gets a rhythm going before he says, “You’ve always had this way of looking at me like I hang the moon, even when we were little kids. Still do. So here’s what I’m wondering: if the way you feel about me hasn’t changed, does that mean that you’re fucked up enough to substitute sex for intimacy even with your own brother, or have you secretly been perving on me for our entire lives?”

When Dean tries to pull off so he can tell Sam to shut up and enjoy his blowjob, Sam just chuckles and pushes Dean’s head down with sweaty palms, the same moment as his hips thrust up again. The laughing gets louder. “Yeah, all right, I’ll stick to porno dialogue from now on. Fuck, Dean, your throat is so tight. Take it good for me.”

Dean considers it a win that Sam momentarily seems to forget exactly the kind of porn Dean’s been reading lately. He closes his eyes and thinks about fireworks in a burning field.


End file.
